Peppermint, and the Night
by VengefulMothSlayer
Summary: America is scared of the dark... And he goes to England for light. Mild coarse language, mild adult themes. VERY MILD.


**Yo bitches! Imma be back and rockin' this new computer! (to be fair, it's not a new computer, it's just the same laptop, with a touch screen) (and I feel really ripped-off, 'cause I had NO COMPUTER for THREE FUCKING WEEKS because of it) (to be fair, one of those weeks I had the computer, but I couldn't use it because I had used it in my room the night before I handed it in. To finish homework. And my parents found out) (I think that is a torture in some countries) Yeah, so my muse has literally been locked up in a small room with no way of getting out, and I didn't know where the room was. Don't get me wrong, I do have paper. I just really hate handwriting shit. Which means that I can't write with no computer. Argh. **

**Anyways, my very good friend the England fangirl suggested that I break it out with explosives, and that as soon as it got out, I should give it porn. And that is what I did. Story for another time, squidlings. **

**So this is just a short and sweet oneshot that I wrote by hand, yes you read me, **_**by hand**_** just for you. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU. **

**Enjoy! **

_**Peppermint, and the night**_

I can't sleep.

I'm in a nice hotel, I'm not sure which one. They all tend to burn together after a while. Zurich. Swissy's place.

But that doesn't matter, not to me. The shadows are the same all over the world. They never change.

I stare into the night, looking for movement. I see none. But it's night; anything could be hidden in the darkness.

And again, I am struck with the wish for light, and noise; not the artificial chatter of the television, with its hypercolour depiction of people that aren't even real, not for the searing, constant light of the bulbs. The programmes probably wouldn't even be in a language I understand.

No, I long for the life that lies trapped in a door across the hall, the light that dims and flickers with life and its pains, the voice that varies.

Again I am struck by this urge- it happens often, though I haven't done anything about it before.

This time is different. This time I move, and the shadows coil and whip at my heels. I move faster. In only the time it takes to open a door and cross a few metres of floor, I am standing outside his door, and tapping, tapping.

I'm don't even know what the time is.

Tapping. Knocking.

I am greeted by the sound of a crash through the thin door and a sleep-slurred voice asking me why the bloody hell am I knocking at this time of night?

I almost smile, tightly, but I can't. The edges of the corridor are drenched in the night and the light is dim. I can feel the monsters lurking just behind my eyes.

When he opens the door with a soft click and a tiny creak, the darkness yawns behind him, a black hole swirling silently, a mouth without shape.

"America," England says, leaning against the doorframe and rubbing his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

For a moment the words stick in my throat, slimy like cold rice, 'cause of how tired he looks. I'm trying real hard to ignore the fact that he's still in his suit, which he's obviously just been asleep in, though the tie is loosened. I'm trying to ignore how he's got ink-stains on his pale cheeks from falling asleep on a pile of paperwork. I'm trying to ignore the dark circles under his eyes, the tired stains in the green gaze, and the rumpled, knotted way his hair looks, like it hasn't been combed.

"Couldn't sleep." The words climb out, shrugging. I smile, and I hope it looks real, 'cause on my face it just feels stretched and wrong and plastic, a warped, crayon version of my usual smile.

He looks annoyed, but then he always does. This time, the corners of his eyes soften and he nods tiredly. "Come on, then."

He flicks on the light and I follow him in, closing the door to keep the shadows out. He fills up the kettle and sets out two cups while I hover in the corner of the room, ignoring the fact that I already feel better.

He makes two cups of tea, and I refuse out of instinct and experience. He tells me I'll like it, and when I finally take a sip, I do.

It tastes like peppermint gum, but cooler, sharper, and less sweet.

"Peppermint tea," he says at my surprise. Then he falls silent.

I watch from the corner of my eye, and time slips quietly. I'm sitting on the couch with him opposite, and my cup is half full, my mouth tingling a tiny bit with the taste. The flavour reminds me of something, but I'm not sure what.

More words slip off my tongue, before I can catch them, and reach out to England, silent in their own way.

"I can't remember the last time I slept well. I've got too much shit on my mind."

There's something guilty in them, but for a moment, I feel better for it. And when I look up, and I see his face, it's unreadable. My muscles tighten, wild animals readying for flight.

But he tells me, just as quiet, that peppermint tea is all dried mint leaves, and that he drinks it every night before he sleeps, to try and chase away the bad thoughts. He says it's good for that.

I don't want to break the silence; it falls over my shoulders softly like a warm blanket made of feathers or clouds or snow, almost melting and breaking, but not.

He's looking at the curtains, and his eyes are the way the tea tastes- cool and sharp, with just a hint of gentle sweetness.

Finally, he rakes a hand through his wild hair, getting a bit lost in the soft strands, the yellow clinging to his fingers like sunshine. He looks at me, gaze sharp-soft.

"You don't have to be afraid," he says. His green, green eyes are worried behind their mask of irritated unconcern.

"Of the dark, I mean," he continues, voice still slightly husky from sleep, and I realise he must know me either better than I thought, or not at all.

"I'm not afraid of the dark," I find myself saying. "I'm afraid of the monsters."

I can almost see the hint of a kind smile, tucked away in a secret corner of his soft mouth.

My voice drops to a whisper as it creeps past my lips, and I find myself telling him that I'm afraid, afraid I'll turn into a monster, too.

"Who was it who said that to fight monsters you must become one, and when you stare into the abyss, it stares into you?"

He was silent, but I could see in his eyes that he knew.

"I don't want to be alone."

The words sit on the floor, begging, pleading.

"I'm scared that when I wake up, I'll be gone."

_I'm scared that no-one will even notice I'm not there. _

The words go unsaid but they're just as loud, just as leaden on the floor, just as guilty.

His eyes are creased like paper at the edges with sadness and with something warm, but also cold. His words are not an invitation, nor are they an accusation, but a quiet observation weighed down with truth, traces of old, faded bitterness that will not wipe clean, and an ice-and-steel-coloured emotion like regret.

"You don't have to be alone," he says. "You could fill your bed at night, if you wanted."

My voice is crinkled from old use, years scrunched up and gathering dust in a storage room, folded over and over again, tossed at the back of my mind. "I don't want just anybody. I want somebody I'll never get. And I don't want sex, I want somebody to hold, someone to hold me back, somebody to make sure I'm still there when the sun rises."

We're silent again, but I know he knows what I mean.

I lean forward and take the empty mug from his hands, cradle his soft, sharp chin.

_I love you_, my eyes say, and I kiss him, aiming straight for that soft, gentle smile he's hiding.

It's not fiery, or lusty, or fast, but it's not chaste either. It's soft, like silence, and a bit wistful too, like relief. Like taking a break from work and eating without knowing you're hungry or tired. Like falling asleep and dreaming of open skies.

It's perfect.

In those moments, I don't worry about the shadows clinging at the corners of the room, the night behind the windows, the monsters in the dark. I taste the peppermint on his lips and my hands get lost in his hair, the soft, sleep-creased hair of the man I love.

I know what the peppermint reminds me of now. It's old sadness and new love. It's us.

When we pull away for air, we smile.

**Yeah, no porn for you. You can imagine it, if you want. I personally like to think that they did exactly what 'Murica said and just held each other 'till the sun rose. But I guess I'm being soppy. **

**Please, tell me what you think! I've been reading a lot of Marcus Zusak lately, and the personification of the words and emotions reads a little weird, I know. Tell me if you like it! I vants to know! **

**-from Slayer, with Love. **


End file.
